Ripped Open
by IAmTheMessenger
Summary: Will recalls his first time being whipped, and the desires it left him with. WARNING: slash, whipping, mature content. don't like, don't read; all flames will be used to roast marshmallows.


**Ripped Open **

_Salt._

_ It's all he can smell. _

_ The wind speaks of it, the waves carry it, and Davy Jones' men stink of it. _

_ Will isn't even sure if they are men, or some abhorrent creatures born and made to torment his increasingly hellish life._

_It's too much effort to think about it. It's too much effort to do anything but squeeze his eyes shut and breathe, and try not to saturate his lungs with the salt, the salt that is everywhere. _

_He twists in the grasp of the brute that is squeezing him, feeling its corrugated hands tighten their grip on his scratched shoulder. A frustrated grunt tumbles out his mouth. Rain splatters across his face. _

_By tilting his head to the left he can peer under his forearm and see the outline of his father, staring at him blankly. The whip is ready in his hand. Will swears it's staring at him with longing. _

_It's obvious that he doesn't want to do this. It's obvious that he can't bring himself to hurt his son. It's obvious he'll die if he doesn't do as he's told. _

_Bootstrap Bill Turner raises the whip above his head, arms quavering, the wildly salted wind blowing the long black hair into the crazed face. _

_William Turner closes his eyes. He hears the thunder, feels rain being tossed across his body, sees nothing but the insides of his eyelids. He's hyperactively aware of everything around him, nerves alert and ready to grasp the rope coming towards his bare skin. _

_He hears the whip breaking the air. He can feel it almost before it makes contact with his skin. His back muscles are clenched like a fist, shoulder blades knitted together, tense. Ready. A shudder ripples through him as the whip descends down on him with an earsplitting, powerful-_

CRACK.

Will awakes with a gasp, soaked to the skin in an icy layer of sweat. He is shaking uncontrollably, entire body convulsing from side to side, and shivering from the cold. Swaying in his hammock, it takes several long breaths to calm his racing heart.

The dreams of his first whipping come back to him nearly every night since his return to the Black Pearl. And nearly every night he wakes up, either with a fever brewing or with tears in his eyes.

_Damn Davy Jones to his godforsaken locker. Damn his Flying Dutchman. Damn them all, _Will thinks to his lonely self, as he tries to rock the hammock back and forth in attempt to pacify his electrified nerves.

When it becomes evident that sleep is sure to avoid him for yet another night, Will crawls out of the hammock and tumbles down onto the planked surface of the Pearl, nearly missing Gibbs, who is snoring loudly on the floor with an empty bottle of rum in a dirty, clenched fist. He stepps over various crew members, shards of glass, weapons, before coming to the ladder that lead up to the deck. Each step feels like a mile's race up a mountain.

The salty breeze cools Will's warm body as he steps up onto the deck, cleansing away the sweat that sticks to his brow and drips down his perturbed face. The troubled man slowly ambles over to the prow of the ship, swinging from the ropes and settling down at the very tip of the head. Glancing above him, Will sees that it is a full moon that night; a good omen, if there are such things. The stars illuminate the water in a beautiful, eerie way that makes Will's skin crawl at the sight. _What horrors, what visions lurk beneath the surface? _Before he has a chance to chew his own thought, a familiar voice cuts through his reverie.

"Lovely night for stargazing, innit?" Cursing under his breath, Will jumps up on the prow, nearly losing his balance and falling into the sea. Above him looms the grinning face of Jack, peering down from his hideaway in the ropes.

"Bloody hell, Jack! You scared me," Will gasps, recovering his breath for the second time that night.

"My apologies, lad. Thought I might join ya, eh?" Plopping himself beside Will, the Captain drapes one arm over the railing and the other over the boy's shoulder. The gesture comforts him.

The pirates sit in companionable silence for a while, Jack twiddling his beaded dreadlocks, Will stealing sideways glances at him while gazing half-heartedly at the moon.

"Do you fear death?" Will isn't sure what prompts the question but Jack's expression doesn't change.

"Why do you ask, William?" No answer.

A silence dawns, stretches, and breaks in time with the men's slow breathing.

"Will, it's a complex, intricate question and I can't imagine why you are feeling the need to ask me."

"Don't give me that faggot's shit, Jack. You know bloody well why,"

A pinprick of anger ignites in Will's burnt eyes.

"No, really, do tell."

"I'm asking because if I die-"

"Everyone dies, William. Don't try and avoid it."

"-if I die, I want to know…"

"Know what?"

"The way back."

A hush falls, and this time Jack isn't as quick to break it. Many breaths are drawn and let out before the words begin to flow.

"Why do you want to know that? Doesn't the idea of death…entice you? An escape from this hell-hole into a much better place forever?"

"Does it entice _you_?"

An exasperated snarl twists out of the older pirate's mouth, and Will huffs in unison.

"I asked you first." Jack grunts.

"I asked you second."

"Bloody whelp."

"Pirate."

"Pirate yourself."

They both sigh again, Will's heavy shoulder's slumping in defeat.

"No, the idea of going to hell doesn't entice me. Heaven, yes. But not hell. And whether those two even exist is another story." Jack peers at Will in confusion.

"What would lead you to believe heaven and hell don't exist, lad?"

"What would lead you to believe they _do_?"

"Stop contradicting me and answer the damned question!"

"I-but, I can't-"

"Can't explain it? One day you were taught to believe in a 'no heaven, no hell' rule? Your mother raised you up to believe that after death there was nothing? Your father's death convinced you that there had to be a way back? You're determined to return him to this life, to be with you, aren't you? That's why you asked me about death. Answer me, William."

"You're talking nonsense again."

"Ain't I always, lad? Answer,"

"I-yes, I want to bring my father back, I want to know if there is a way. He's…he's not well, aboard the Flying Dutchman. He's much more -I can't explain it. But I don't like it, Jack. And I know I can bring him back."

A pause encircles them, a momentary second of deep thinking.

"Will, your father isn't dead. Not quite. He's alive in the sense that he can breathe and speak and eat and drink rum, he be blessed for it, and other humane things. But he lives on the Dutchman, and nowhere else. It is his only home. If you want to save him, it would be to sever his ties with life. If you merely want to be with him…well, you know that one already."

"Become captain of the Dutchman." The words are hard, wooden. Will's voice stutters as he says it. Jack can see he doesn't want to do that.

"Aye."

Jack's mind is racing with the possibility. On one hand, _Jack _could become the captain, and be forever with his single lover, the sea…and leave Will alone. On the other hand, if Will becomes the Dutchman's captain, he'll be with his father. But Will would never be with Elizabeth – unless he counted one day each decade as being with her for a substantial amount of time. And Will would never be with him.

That, Jack thinks, is what troubles him the most. Being separated from his First Mate.

The two have been through everything together, from the cursed Aztec gold to cannibals, and now to this. Jack has always been protective of Will, but has never been as aware of it as he is now, has never realized how much Will means to him, as a person, a friend, a companion, a mate.

Will's mind is wandering down a similar path.

He doesn't want to become Captain of the Dutchman, because it would mean being without all the people he held so close in his life; Elizabeth, Gibbs, and, of course, Jack. He also doesn't want his father condemned to a life of eternal suffering, eternal death.

Will tries to picture a life without Jack in it. _How strange, _he thinks. _How strange that would be. No rum, no whiskey. No conversations on board the Pearl, late into the Caribbean night. No rum. _The thought of an absence of rum brings a smile to Will's lips.

"What are you thinking about?" Jack's voice cuts through the night like butter.

"Remembering the first time I met you. You slapped my wrist with your sword… scared the daylights out of me, that did," Will replies with ease.

_He sees an unfamiliar hat, steps to pick it up, but before he can reach it a blade crosses his path, tapping his hand warningly. Out of the shadows steps a most unlikely figure; tall, tanned, well-built, and those dark, dark eyes. _

"_You're the one they're looking for. The pirate." The slippery words escape his grasp before he has the chance to reel them in. _

"Aye. I told you it would be a shame to put a black mark on your wrist. You didn't believe you were a pirate," Jack chuckles.

"_Have I threatened you before? You seem…familiar," _

"_I make a point of avoiding familiarity with pirates." He grasps his sword, pointing it at the base of the man's throat. _

"_You think this to be wise, crossing blades with a pirate?" _Back then Will hadn't known the fight had been between a pirate and a pirate, not a pirate and a blacksmith, like he had thought. Will had persisted, fought on, barricaded Jack twice from escaping. _Fool. You were a fool. _

But their dramatic brawl isn't what had stood out to Will during their first encounter. It was the shiver that had gnawed at his spine, the thrill that rode over him as the clang of steel on steel numbed his ears - that was what he remembered. The way Jack had looked at him, tested him, played with him…All of it makes Will shudder inside. He peers at Jack again, who is still tying knots in his dreadlocks.

_They spar for what feels like hours, one strike turning into another deflection. Will tires, but in the back of his exhausted mind he wishes the intensity of the moment to never end… _

"Jack, I…" Will's courage falters for the slightest moment. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. Jack is quiet, letting the boy take his time. Will opens his mouth, allowing the words fall to the hard planks.

"When-when I was aboard the Flying Dutchman, Davy Jones-I mean, my father-well, Davy Jones _made _my father w-whip me. I…"

Jack's face is unreadable as he listens to Will.

"Aye, lad? You what?" Will's eyes stumble to the floor, unable to meet Jack's as he whispers,

"I'd never been whipped before."

This does not take Jack by surprise; in fact, he has never seen Will as the type to have been spanked by his mother as a boy. Jack pats his back affectionately, and Will gives a small smile.

"Anythin else, lad?" Jack prompts when Will says nothing. At that Will immediately becomes distressed, withdrawing from Jack's hand that lies on his shoulder, hurriedly rubbing his eyes, jiggling his feet.

"Will. You weren't…raped, were you?" Despite his upset state, Will laughs sharply at the question.

"No, nothing like that…" He lapses back into silence for a minute or so before continuing.

"Jack, I-it was…strange. I'd thought whipping to be a terrible, brutal form of torment - I still do. I'd expected the whip to pain me, to injure me, make me beg for mercy. But…"

"But?"

"…it didn't. Jack, it felt…good." On that word Will looks up at Jack, sees the expression on Jack's face that so exactly mirrors his feelings at that moment-

"The crack of the whip when it fractured the air in half on its journey to me, the noise it made when the leather hit my skin, the delightful, burning sensation of my skin being _ripped _open, the sting of the salt water on the fresh, fresh cuts, it felt – _Jack, it felt so good-" _Will breaks off abruptly and shoves his head between his knees, blushing and embarrassed. He feels Jack's calloused hand on his back, straightening him up, forcing him to stare into Jack's kohl-rimmed, shadowy eyes.

"Will, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It just goes to prove how much of a pirate you are, how at times your hatred of physical torture is diminished by the thrill of being subject to it yourself, savvy?"

Will gulps and nods.

But it isn't enough. He is hardly aware of himself gathering every last crumb of courage left in his saddened body and crying out,

"Jack, I want you to whip me!"

Again, Jack's face is indecipherable. His eyes meander across the water – almost _thoughtfully, _it seems to Will, who is shaking with need –

"William…"

"Please, Jack. _Please." _

"William, are you positive?"

"Absolutely. Jack, I'm begging you. I wouldn't ask this of anyone but you, and I'm asking you now – please, Jack!"

Shaking his head in defeat, Jack jumps down under the deck and emerges moments later with a cat o' nine tails in his hands. At the sight of it Will's body spasms wildly. He rips his shirt apart, tearing it to pieces, exposing his bare back to the charcoal sky. Jack steps towards the kneeling man tentatively, unraveling the whip to its full glory.

"Will, you're sure about this?" Turning around to face him, Will's beseeching eyes, haunted with need, say what words cannot. He nods to Jack before revolving back around so his back is vulnerable, exposed, ready.

_Salt. _

Will inhales deeply, tasting the breeze on his tongue.

_He hears the whip breaking the air. He can feel it almost before it makes contact with his skin. _

Jack raises his arm above his head. If Will turns his head slightly he can see that Jack's arm is shaking.

_A shudder ripples through him as the whip descends down on him - _

He brings his arm down in a straight line to Will's back, Will's back that is shaking as well, but with excitement and not fear –

_- with an earsplitting, powerful – _

SLAP.

This time it's not a dream.

It's real.

The leather collides with the muscle soundly, digging beneath the first layer of skin, bringing with it on its way out several droplets of blood.

Will gasps, but the gasp is inlaid with ecstasy, not pain.

If it had been a sound of torment, Jack would have stopped.

But the noise Will makes is beyond his control, and he lifts the whip up again.

With each spank, Will's cries grows louder and louder. His skin becomes more and more raw, more and more bloody, as the crimson liquid is brought to the surface. And Jack's expression becomes more and more crazed, furious, concentrated, as he whips his First Mate in the dead of night.

"OH! Jack, that's-OH, that's-ah-AH-_BLOODY HELL, JACK_, DON'T- STOP-OH-GOD_-" _Each word is choked out with a strike until Will collapses to the deck, breathing raggedly, heavily.

Jack is panting too, as he drops down beside the weary boy.

"Th-thank you, Jack," Will murmurs under his breath.

"You're welcome, m'boy."

Will feels incredibly tired, spent. His back is sure to cause him soreness in the coming days, but at the moment he can hardly care less. He rolls over cautiously to face Jack, who stares at him intently.

"Feel better?"

"Much."

"Good."

A wind picks up, brushing over Will's prostrate form, and he shivers, moving an inch closer to Jack's warmth. Jack draws him in so Will's head rests on his shoulder, and covers him up with the remains of what used to be Will's shirt.

In that one movement, that one moment, Will feels a change.

The world stops moving, the waves stop lapping, and the wind ceases to blow.

Will Turner tilts his head up and gazes into Jack Sparrow's starless eyes for a deep second before pressing his own lips to his Captain's.

_The world stops moving, the waves stop lapping, the wind ceases to blow. _

It takes a couple instants before Jack responds to his First Mate, pulling him in closer, grasping Will's face in his hands.

Will opens his mouth against Jack's, silently willing him to comply. Their pirate tongues fight like swords, battling in the midst of the darkness, neither prepared to back down.

Gasping, Will pulls back, in desperate need of oxygen. His head is spinning – no, the world is spinning – he swallows the air gratefully. Jack looks at him bemusedly.

"Will? Care to explain the – forgive the pun – slip of tongue?"

"Jack, I – I think I love you," The words stagger out, one by one, and line themselves up between the two pirates, waiting for a response.

"I guessed that much, lad. And-well, I've loved you too, and not in the way I love rum. I love you as a person. Bootstrap Bill's son, I know. Surprising, eh?" A blush paints Will's neck as he smiles shyly.

"…really, Jack? You…love me too?"

"Aye."

"Lie down." The younger man does as he's told, wincing slightly as his cuts are pressed against the stiff wood. Rather than remove his lower garments, as Will hopes, Jack pulls a small knife out of his belt and leans over Will's warm body.

"Close your eyes." Will trusts Jack and blocks out the night, skin tingling in anticipation. When he feels the cool blade against his chest, Will inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes more tightly.

"Shhh, lad. It's okay," Jack soothes him before pressing the tip of the knife gently into Will. He gasps softly but doesn't flinch as Jack carves a pair of wings directly over his lover's heart. Rather, as he becomes accustomed to the sensation, Will begins to rock his hips against Jack's, breath rate increasing.

Finally Jack is done with his engraving. Grasping Will's hips in his hands he holds them in place while undoing his trousers. His eyes are still closed.

The night watches as Captain and First Mate hold each other on the deck of the Pearl, caressing, kissing, fondling each other. The night protects them as they lie together, side by side, Will's scars slowly healing under Jack's loving hand, the smell of salt lingering on the heavy air…


End file.
